Surfacing
by RosalindsGhost
Summary: He first saw her in a dive bar. It had been a dry spell between hunts for some time now. All the shit tended to come screaming back to him in times of quiet, so he found what solace he could at the bottom of a whiskey glass and in the flesh of beautiful women. This one had a surprise for Dean. Lemony-fresh one-shot. Any time after Season 7. M for language and sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

He first saw her in a dive bar. He usually met them in dive bars. It had been a dry spell between hunts for some time now. All the shit tended to come screaming back to him in times of quiet, so he found what solace he could at the bottom of a whiskey glass and in the flesh of beautiful women. When they took him home, there was usually a moment where the noise in his head ceased altogether, when he could lose himself in giving and receiving pleasure. Despite what Sam might have thought, he always tried to give as much pleasure as he took. Focusing on someone other than himself for a time was often the most effective way of stilling the madness. That, and he wasn't a monster; he wanted them to enjoy it, too. He did always leave them soon after, though, unwilling to impose the broiling insanity beneath his skin on them for any longer than the momentary oblivion he received in their arms. There were too many to name, too many to count.

At first, he thought she might be a call girl. She was dressed too well for this one horse bar. Her dress was a classic LBD – little black dress – with a plunging neckline. He could see the swell of her breasts very clearly. But she had an edge to her look that he immediately liked. She wore a heavily distressed black motorcycle jacket over her dress, and though her hair fell in long, dark waves, one side of her head was shaved severely. She had several piercings in her visible ear, and he was willing to bet there were a few tattoos under that dress as well. He drank steadily, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she ordered a Guinness, of all things.

He noticed that her gaze kept sliding to the door of the bar, and he realized that she wasn't a call girl – she was meeting someone. A date. He silently prayed – no, scratch that, he didn't pray any more, you never knew who was listening – he hoped, selfishly, that her date wouldn't show. Forty minutes and two more rounds in, it was looking like the night was in his favour. She was down to the dregs of her Guinness, and had stopped looking toward the door every time it opened. He decided to make his move. He slid a few stools down toward her. "Now what kind of drooling idiot would stand up a girl like you?"

She turned to look at him, and though her gaze showed frank appraisal, there was something else there that he couldn't read. She raised an eyebrow at him. "The kind that has a wife and children to go home to. I should have known he would chicken out. Men with attachments are complicated. Wounded puppies like you are much easier."

There was a pause. "Excuse me?" he said, taken aback. He had never been called a wounded puppy before.

"You heard me," she said, "Coming in here on a Tuesday night with those big, pretty eyes, sucking down straight whiskey? You're wounded and you use that to your advantage. But hey, more power to you. You've got your thing and I have no doubt it works for you."

Frustration boiled up in his chest – she had managed to piss him off with a few choice words that were a little too close to the truth. That stung, a bit. But then she smiled at him, and unwillingly, the words popped out: "Lady, that guy was crazy not to come here tonight."

Her grin widened. "Yes he was," she said, "So I guess _you_ can buy me a drink instead."

He chuckled, and signalled the bartender. Then something tickled at the back of his mind. The cheeky humour, the uncomfortable truths; who did she remind him of? But her hand was on his arm, and she was smiling at him, so it didn't matter. He didn't ask her many questions, and she didn't volunteer any information, not really. She talked about her motorcycle – a Suzuki – and he told her about the Impala. It was safe, and distracting, and surprisingly fun.

Suddenly, her hand was on his upper thigh. He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Well, you weren't making a move," she teased.

He covered her hand with his own.

Out in the parking lot, he pressed her against the Impala, his mouth meeting hers in a crash of whiskey-flavoured heat. He let his hands roam, fully appreciating for the first time just how incredible her body was beneath the dress and the weather-beaten jacket. She wasn't just slim; she was muscular. She was taut, yet somehow still soft against him. She drew back. "As sexy as this car is, do you have some place with a little more room we could go to?"

He helped her into the passenger seat, and then went around to the driver's side. The Impala roared to life with a twist of his key, AC/DC pounding from the speakers. He pulled out of the parking lot, taking it easy on the speed on the way back to his crummy hotel. He was slightly afraid he might have exceeded even his tolerance for alcohol this time. Luckily, the hotel wasn't that far away from the bar.

He practically leapt out of the car, and her tugged her against him as she got out of, slamming the door behind her. It crossed his mind that he shouldn't be thrilled about bringing her here. He preferred to be the one to walk out – he hated asking them to leave. At least he knew that Sammy was in research mode at the university library in the next town over, so he wouldn't be showing up at any point to judge him for finding yet another girl. That was good. He needed this tonight. Two weeks, and no jobs and he _needed_ to feel something other than the screeching terror that threatened to overwhelm him any moment he wasn't hunting or drinking or fucking.

He managed to get the door to the room open, despite the fact that she seemed determined to keep her mouth glued to his. Not that he minded. When she bit his lip sharply, he felt himself grow instantly, shockingly hard, despite the whiskey. She hummed contentedly against his lips, and he knew she could feel his erection straining against her body through the fabric of his jeans. He slammed the door behind them and fumbled with the deadbolt. He had learned long ago that locked doors were especially important when he had a distraction like her to deal with.

Suddenly, he felt her hands slide over his and decisively click the lock into place, and then she pulled away. He watched her with hooded eyes as she slid off her jacket, then unzipped her dress, letting it pool on the floor. He was right. She did have tattoos: an upper sleeve, and a dusting of tiny skulls along her hipbone. She wore a black lacy bra and panties, exactly as he liked. He tried to draw her in for a kiss, but she stopped him. Instead, she began to pull off his clothes. She had his jacket and shirt off quickly, and here, she paused.

He wanted to touch her so bad, but he stopped himself when he felt her hands on his stomach. Ever so gently, she let her fingers explore the scars that criss-crossed his flesh, and they lingered on the tattoo just above his heart. Next, she found his belt and roughly started to pull off his jeans. He finally let himself touch her when he saw how sweetly her breasts moved as she pulled of his belt. She arched as his hot hands found her bare skin, but she was intent on her task, and didn't let his hands distract her. He felt that tickle at the back of his mind again – her determination, it reminded him of – but then she was easing his underwear down over his swollen cock, and he forgot all about it.

He kicked off his shoes and he let his hands fall away from her body as she knelt down to pull off his underwear and pants. She looked up at him, and he wanted so badly for her to take his length into her mouth and finish him off right there, that he threaded his fingers into her hair to pull her towards him. However, she shook her head gently, so he stopped. She circled her fingers around his forearms, using his strength to pull herself to standing. As she pulled him toward the bed, and he admired the way he could see her muscles move beneath her skin. She turned and pushed him gently, so that he sat down abruptly on the edge.

She stood before him. Her breasts were level with his gaze, and he was painfully hard. He reached out, smiling at the brilliant simplicity of her front-clasping bra. The skin not covered by tattoos was milky white, and her nipples were dark pink, standing in pebbled peaks. He brushed his thumbs lightly over them eliciting a sharp indrawn breath from her. His hands slid down her ribs and he watched, not without amazement, as goose bumps broke out over her skin wherever he touched her. He tucked his fingers into her panties and slowly tugged them down, pressing his thumbs between her legs to find the wetness there.

Her hips thrust toward him, and she made a small noise in the back of her throat, her head falling back. He drew in his breath, a haze of lust clouding his eyes as he thrust his face toward the apex of her thighs. His tongue flicked out and he licked up her slit, nose nestled in the sparse curls above. Then her hands were on either side of her head, gripping his hair and jerking his head back so he could look at her. "No," she breathed, forcefully, her gaze piercing him, holding him in place.

He let go of her hips and leaned back, away from her; worried he had hurt her or gone too fast. However, her expression lightened, and she smiled slightly at him. She crawled up on the bed beside him, and around behind him. She repeated her action from earlier, her fingers wandering over the scars on his back, her lips and tongue joining them this time. He shuddered as her teeth grazed his neck and her hand skimmed over his hip and finally came to rest on his throbbing cock.

He began to pant harshly as her hot palm grazed over the tip, which was already weeping pre-cum. Leisurely, she began jacking him off, as she wrapped her entire body around his, her legs on either side of him, the hard points of her nipples pressed into his back and her slit rubbing a trail of sticky wetness into his lower back. Her lips trailed fire across his shoulders, and her left hand mercilessly pinched and twisted his nipples.

He was so overwhelmed with sensation that he brought his hands up behind his head to tangle in her hair so he could tell her to stop, or keep going, or oh God, just please let him fuck her already, when she hissed "Don't touch me!"

His eyes snapped open and he pulled away as fast as if he had touched something hot. Yet she did not stop her careful torture, so he clenched his fists on his knees and focused on the sensations she imposed upon him. He could feel the tension building as she increased the pace and pressure on his cock. She was now grinding herself against his back, her breath harsh in his ear. His abdominal muscles tensed and coiled like steel springs, and he groaned through gritted teeth as her left hand came up to circle his throat. Suddenly, she bit down savagely at the joining of his neck and shoulder, squeezing her left hand hard enough that the air whistled through his throat. She pumped his cock furiously as his vision narrowed, and just when he thought he might have to pull her hand from his throat to avoid passing out, she released him. Instantly, he came with a snarl of frustration, shuddering and hunched over her hand as she clung to him, her body curled around his.

She continued to pump him until he was spent, and then licked gently at the blood she had drawn with her bite. Then, just like that, her heat around him was gone. He sat, gasping, as he watched her quickly pull on her underwear and her dress; slinging her jacket over her shoulder, she headed for the door. "Wait!" he growled, standing shakily, still dizzy from the lack of air and intense orgasm. "Where are you going? What the hell are you doing?"

"Leaving," she said, as she clicked the lock open.

She began to pull open the door, but he reached around her and slammed it shut. "What the hell?" he demanded.

There was a long silence as she stood, facing away from him, her hand on the doorknob. "I wanted you to feel it," she whispered.

"Feel what?" he growled.

She sighed. "I wanted you to feel the way they do. Those girls you pick up. You think they want you because you're good-looking? No. They can see how you hurt, and they want to help you, to heal you. So you take them home or you go home with them, and you lose yourself in their bodies. To them, it is beautiful and painful, and the sweetest torture they have ever experienced. Because they come close to you. But they can never really touch you."

That feeling of familiarity was stronger than ever. He _knew_ her, didn't he? But he'd never seen her before in his life. He would have remembered a girl like this. She still wouldn't look at him. "So tell me," she said, "What do you feel, right now? What do you want?"

Before he could stop himself, the words poured forth. "I want you to turn around. I want you to look at me. I want to feel every inch of your skin on mine. I want – I want to slide inside your heat and I want to – to _consume_ you. I… I want you to… Heal me."

He stood behind her, breathing hard. Waiting. He reached out. Gently, he pulled her hand from the door and turned her to face him. She still wouldn't lift her eyes. "Please," be breathed, "Look at me."

She lifted her eyes, and she saw his same naked expression reflected back at himself. She _knew_ him. She knew his pain because she had it, too. "Please don't," she whispered, "I don't know if someone this damaged can help you heal, Dean."

And then he had it. He knew it as soon as she said his name. "Jo?" he breathed.

"No. Well, not quite." Her voice shook.

"I don't understand."

She drew in a deep breath. "When Jo died, the angels weren't able to bring her back. Not like they have for you and Sam. Mom… Ellen passed further on, but Jo's death was too violent, and the Hell Hounds tainted it. But, they were able to save something of her, a bit of her essence, a few of her memories. When her – her life was torn from her body, pieces of it were saved by the angels and placed into the nearest empty vessel," she paused, a small catch in her breath.

"I was a brain-dead coma patient called Clara. Unfortunately, even with the extra infusion of Jo's life, it took me a long time to wake up. The nurses were very surprised when I did wake up, emaciated and claiming to be another person. But I still have some of Clara's memories, too. Knowing what I know of Jo's life, and because I don't have a family of my own, I had to find you when I was finally strong enough."

He stumbled back, and sat down hard on the bed. "I wasn't waiting for a date in that bar tonight, Dean. I was looking for you."

She picked up her shirt and tossed it to him. "Here," she said, "It will be easier to concentrate on talking to you without your dick hanging out, Winchester."

He threw the shirt over his legs, still amazed. It was like talking to a ghost. He supposed he _was_ talking to a ghost. "You had to wait until you were strong enough?" he asked, "Look at you, you're perfect."

"Well, I've been training and hunting as I tracked you."

He sighed, trying to understand. "If – if you're not Jo, and you're not really Clara, then who are you?"

She laughed, somewhat sadly. "I spent a lot of time trying to figure that out, believe me," she said. "At this point, I've pretty well reconciled the two parts of myself into a unique whole. Though, I still get confused a lot of the time. And mostly I feel really out of place, no matter where I am. But Jo and Clara shared the same middle name. So I call myself Beth."

"Beth, I…" The silence stretched out.

She looked away. "I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't want our first meeting to go like this. But you have to understand: there are a lot of unspoken things, unfinished business, and hurt feelings between you and Jo. They, they kind of took over, there, for a while," she paused. "If it's any consolation, I think Clara would have really liked you. And Jo did, too, even if she was pissed at you most of the time. I – I'm so sorry, Dean."

He looked up at her, sharply. "I'm not, " he whispered.

She glanced at him. "What?"

"There was – was something about you. The second I saw you… Do you remember what I said to Jo before she died?"

Tears welled up in her eyes. "Y-you said 'See you on the other side. Pro…"

"Probably sooner rather than later. That's right," he said. "And you said: 'Make it later.'"

"And then you kissed me. Our first kiss."

He held her in his gaze. "Well, it's later. It's so much later," he said. "It was you. It was always you that I waited for. And they kept taking you away from me." His voice broke.

Hers shook. "What do you want, Dean?"

"I want someone who is just as damaged as me," he whispered fiercely. "Someone who can understand me without pitying me. Someone who can kick my ass and cuss me out. I want you, Beth."

Beth took one halting step forward. Dean launched himself off the bed, catching her mouth in a kiss that burned more than any before it. It burned like that long-remembered kiss from the day Jo and Ellen died. His hands were everywhere, speaking for him, saying all the things he never got to say to Jo. Beth's tears were on his lips, and he tasted Jo and a sweet girl named Clara who he didn't know, but wanted to.

He lifted her slim body up, and she wrapped her legs around his hips, gasping as the sopping fabric of her underwear met his renewed erection. They tumbled onto the bed, panting, as Dean pulled off her dress and underwear. He traced his lips down her body, wanting to make this last for her, yet at the same time wanting to take what he'd needed for so long. He roughly hitched her legs over his shoulders before sliding his tongue out between his lips to taste her. He slipped two fingers between her slick folds, eliciting a hitch in her breath in response. His tongue pressed firmly against her tight bundle of nerves, he pumped his fingers in and out, curling them against her inner wall. Her thighs clenched around his head and her fingers wove into his hair as she moaned aloud. "D-Dean!" she gasped, "Oh, God, deeper!"

He obliged, adding a third finger and thrusting further into her. "Oh!" she shuddered around him, her hips arching up, and he knew she was close to climax. He thrust harder, and pressed his thumb into her clit, replacing his tongue. "Dean!" she cried, and he felt her inner muscles clench repeatedly around his fingers, accompanied by a rush of fluid.

He eased his fingers out and kissed her lightly right above the pubic bone as her legs continued to shake. "Dean," she breathed, "That was… Come here!"

Beth seized him by the ears, pulling him up her body to capture his mouth with her own, tasting her juices on his lips. She pushed him away, her gaze boring into his. "I want you inside me."

Dean chuckled darkly and rolled off her, digging through his discarded jeans for a condom. He found one and ripped the wrapper with his teeth, rolling it on as quickly as possible. He crawled sinuously over her again, but she surprised him by seizing him roughly and rolling them both until she was straddling him. Her hair cascaded around her face as she grinned down at him. Dean's hands found her breasts and he groaned as she raked her nails down his chest. She raised herself up, and cool air hit the spot of dampness she had left on his lower stomach. Then Beth had his cock in hand as she eased her folds down over the tip. She threw her head back and gasped in delight as she lowered herself down over him.

"God," he groaned.

He was sheathed perfectly inside her as her hips settled flush onto his. His fingers dug into her flesh as she ran his hands down her body to grasp her hips. He was gripping her hard enough to leave bruises, but he couldn't seem to let her go. "Slow down, Winchester," she gasped, as she began to grind against him, "It's not life or death this time. Have some fun."

He let out a bark of laughter that was cut off by a moan as her answering laugh caused her to clench around his cock. With that laugh, he felt something lighten within him, and he grinned up at her as he pulled her hips down to meet his thrust. She gasped happily at the new sensation. He loved the sound. He pulled her down to kiss him again, hoping to translate even a small portion of the emotion he felt at having even a piece of Jo back.

She kissed him back with equal fervour. She began to ride him hard then, raising up and sliding back down over him. He watched as she bit her lip, cresting the wave of pleasure. His hand moved between them, rubbing her clit as her breath hitched and she let out a high moan. He felt his lower abdominals clench, and he knew he was close to climax, but he wanted her to come first. "C'mon, Beth, honey," he breathed, "We've waited so long. This is for Jo. Come for me. Heal us," and with a shudder and a cry he could feel in the centre of his being, she came.

The muscles in his core quivering, he followed on the wave of her orgasm with a growl. And just like that, something in his soul released, and he was sitting up, clutching her to him as she cradled her head in his arms and whispered that everything was going to be okay.

It didn't change everything that had happened, not even close. What it did do was provide a kind of catharsis he hadn't felt in years. And as he laid his ear on her chest and listened to her heartbeat, he felt, perhaps for the first time ever, like he might, one day, be all right.


	2. Chapter 2

***Hello Gentle Readers! So, enough of you have decided to follow this story that despite my original intention for it to be a one-shot, I have decided to write some more! Yay! This is just a teaser chapter so far, but there will be more to come, especially addressing your favourite angel and mine. Rated M for sexual content and perhaps we'll have some foul language in here soon, ha! Merci for the reviews thus far; more are welcome.

***For reference, I have solidified the timeline down to post season 7, but nothing more specific than that. If this flies in the face of all that is holy in the current season, my apologies, I haven't caught up on it yet.

Without further ado, I present "Surfacing: Chapter 2"

* * *

They slept tangled together in the cheap bed sheets, and in the early hours of the morning, they woke again to explore each other's bodies by touch. While Dean could have said that he had memorized every plane of Jo's body, Beth's body was a bit curvier, a bit more toned. Like Dean, Beth had her share of scars, too. In the dim light of the neon sign outside the hotel, she guided his fingers to her hairline, where he felt the massive, jagged scar that had left Clara nearly empty, allowing room for Jo. He found more tattoos as well: she had a gorgeous black linework tracery of a gothic city skyline across her back, and raven on her left foot. She explained to him how each tattoo covered a scar she had received on a hunt, and took those ugly memories and made them beautiful. With her help, he found the mark of the djinn beneath her sleeve, the spot where a wendigo had shoved a spike through her foot, pinning her to the ground, the shiny burns beneath the city skyline she had gotten the first time she tried to salt and burn a ghost, and the rock salt permanently embedded in the skin beneath the tiny skulls, where she had come under friendly fire.

Dean memorized each scar, and brushing his lips and fingers over them. Eventually, their touches awoke the fire of passion again, and just before dawn, they made love again, slowly. This time, Beth was grave and serious, and tears danced in her eyes as she came apart under Dean's hands. She left him at dawn.

"I still have so much to figure out about myself, Dean, and a lot of that can't be done with you. I know you have bigger things to worry about than my memories."

Dean said nothing, but drove her silently back to her bike. He wanted to ask her to stay with him; he was not sure that he deserved to have her stay. Beth needed to go away, and Dean would let her.

She climbed out of the Impala almost before it had rolled to a stop, and grabbed his phone. She put three different numbers in it, under the names "Beth," "Sergeant Harvelle," and "Special Agent Mitchell." She tossed the phone back to him, and Dean watched in amusement while Beth kicked off her heels in the gravel parking lot and pulled on a pair of Kevlar motorcycle pants and leather boots under her dress. She zipped up her leather jacket and tied her hair back into a low and messy ponytail, before stowing her heels and purse in the compartment beneath the seat of the bike. Then suddenly she turned to Dean and clung to him, whispering fiercely: "I'll come back to you, Dean. It may not be right away, but I will always come back to you."

Then, without another word, she was peeling out of the parking lot on her cherry red rice rocket. Dean watched her go certain that would never see her again.

* * *

A month later, Dean received a text: _South Dakota. Vampire. I'm fine. B._

Two weeks after that: _Maryland. Poltergeist. Yikes. Still fine. B._

Then there was silence for nearly a month and a half before Dean saw: _Texas. Old copper pipes. Definitely not a ghost. Stop worrying. I'm still fine. B._

Then the longest silence yet. Dean didn't hear again for eleven weeks. He was beside himself, one or two more sleepless nights away from activating the GPS on her phone and tracking her down. Then there came: _At the Roadhouse. Not fine. Don't come after me, I'm coming to you. B._

Dean texted his location, and twenty-seven hours later, she was there.


	3. Chapter 3

***Hello again, gentle readers! Without much ado, Chapter 3. This might possibly be leading up to an OTP for me, or in this case, and OT3 ;)  
Reviews are welcome. Mild naughtiness and foul language are ahead; you've been warned. Rated M. Duh.

* * *

She wore jeans and a flannel shirt, with her signature leather jacket overtop. The shaved portion of her head was just beginning to get shaggy, and there were large dark circles under her eyes. Dean's heart clenched: what had happened to the powerful woman he had met in that bar?

Then her eyes met his, and despite her vulnerability, despite the fact that she looked beaten down, he saw a spark of that power still there, and he had a small glimmer of hope that he could help her regain whatever she had lost at the Roadhouse.

He stood outside the bunker with Sam and Castiel, waiting nervously as she trudged down the leaf-strewn path toward them. Since he had received that last worrying text message from Beth, Dean had slowly apprised Sam and Cas of the bare details of the situation. It had been difficult for him, because Beth's significance for Dean was so profound, yet so uncertain, that he had wanted to keep the secret of their encounter to himself. However, Beth needed to be kept safe while she recovered from whatever damage she had suffered, and the only truly safe place he knew of was the bunker, so Dean had had to let Sam and Cas in.

Sam had not been pleased to hear that Dean had been keeping something so important from him. It had been the brothers' usual argument, with a new flavour: "You can't keep things like this from me, Dean! Jo was my friend, too. I deserve to know that some part of her is still alive and well!"

Dean hadn't been able to articulate why it had been so important to keep Beth a secret. For all Sam knew, Dean had simply neglected to tell him yet another important piece of information, so Dean understood his frustration. But to Dean, Beth was something of a miracle; she had appeared out of nowhere and taught him to forgive himself, just a little bit. He couldn't share that feeling with Sammy, not yet.

Cas had been harder to read. Cas was always harder to read. When Dean told Cas about Beth, he had been unsurprised. "I was not involved in the recovery of her soul Dean, but yes, I had heard something about it on 'Angel Wireless,' as you like to call it. I assumed that because Heaven had not ordered I, your direct liaison with the Host, be involved, that the Winchesters were not to be made aware of her condition."

Dean had been beyond upset. "Cas! You met Jo, you knew her! How in the hell could you think Sammy and I wouldn't need to know that some part of her was still out there – especially after she woke up?"

Calmly, as always, Cas had replied: "As you will no doubt remember, Dean, we haven't always been communicative over the course of our relationship. Additionally, I had no way of knowing that she had woken up. I no longer have access to that sort of information since I rebelled. For you, if you'll recall."

Dean had been suitably cowed by that statement, and hadn't brought it up again. And now Beth was standing in front of the three of them, shoulders slumped, but with a slight, defiant tilt to her head. Dean's immediate instinct told him to grab her and spirit her away from the other two, shut her in his room and hold her or pleasure her until she forgot whatever she had seen at the Roadhouse. However, Dean knew that he wasn't all that good at the comfort thing, so he decided to take his lead from Beth. He watched her warily, waiting for any sign of distress. It was chilly and damp, and mist streamed from their collective breath. There was a long, tense silence before a grin quirked up the corner of Beth's mouth and she zeroed her gaze in on Sam. "Wow, Sam. Have you gotten even more massive since the last time I saw you?"

Sam gave a surprised and relieved bark of laughter, and then hesitantly opened his arms to her. She obligingly gave him a quick fierce hug, then winked at Dean as she pulled away. He was surprised, and quite suspicious that she seemed so normal. Despite his initial impression of vulnerability, other than her tired posture and slightly dishevelled appearance, there was nothing about Beth that seemed to suggest the type of hurt that would cause her to drive halfway across the country to glean some strength from Dean.

As he watched her step back from Sam, she seemed to physically steel herself before turning to Castiel. The angel regarded her with the same unerring, level gaze as he did Dean. "You call yourself Beth," he said. It wasn't really a question.

She barely inclined her head. "Castiel. I've heard about you," replied Beth. What, exactly, she had heard, she didn't elaborate. Then, swiftly, she reached out her left hand, cupped the side of Cas's face, and briefly touched her lips to his.

Dean was stunned. He didn't even have the time to make a noise of protest before the kiss was over. Sam's shocked gaze was on Dean, and Beth also turned to him, considering him with an inscrutable look in her eyes. Castiel, however, only appeared to have eyes for Beth. The full power of his ice-blue scrutiny was trained on her. In a split-second of precognisant clarity, Dean realized that something was terribly, unbearably wrong. Almost in slow motion, Beth reached out to him, and seemed to shatter. Her spine arched backward horribly, her mouth wrenched open in a rictus of pain, her supplicating gesture rendered horrifying as the muscles in her hands seized and turned her fingers claw-like. Then, as suddenly as Beth had changed, Castiel's fingers were pressed to her forehead, and she collapsed, unconscious, in the angel's arms.

"What the fuck?!" Dean cried. "What's wrong with her Cas?!"

Sam was already bent beside Cas, checking Beth's pulse. Castiel appeared calm, and held her as if her weight was nothing to him. Gracefully, the angel scooped her into a damsel lift, one arm around her back, the other under her knees. "This woman is in a dire condition, Dean. She has existed too long in a dual state, and something has triggered a fracturing of her consciousness. If I don't help her now, I may not be able to recover a trace of either Jo or Clara."

"Can your mojo heal her Cas?" Dean didn't care for how broken his voice sounded.

"I believe I can, yes, but it will take a good deal of my power. I will need to be alone with her in a closed room, or I will risk harming the two of you."

"Fine," barked Dean, "You can use my room. Anything. Just hurry!"

Cas opened the door to the bunker and was gone. Ignoring Sam's look of distress, Dean barrelled after them, following Castiel down the clanking metal stairs and across the entrance hall before he was stopped by his own wooden door, slammed in his face. Feeling utterly impotent, he thumped his palms roughly against the wood, cursing in frustration. "Fuck!"

He was still standing there, leaning with his forehead against the solid barrier, when he heard Sam approach. "Dean," Sam began, but he didn't get to finish his thought. A familiar, piercing noise rose around them, and blinding white light began to bleed out of the cracks around the bedroom door. Dean clapped his hands over his ears and backed away. The noise became so shrill that, though Dean would have given almost anything to remain sentinel outside the door, the two brothers were driven out of the bunker itself.

* * *

Dean jerked awake in the Impala. He had finally fallen asleep some time close to dawn, after staying awake for most of the night, waiting for the light and sound to stop. But now the woods surrounding the bunker were profoundly silent. Dean was alarmed, but cautious. He glanced to the back seat, were Sam was scrunched up, still dead to the world. He eased the door of the car open as quietly as he could – she was not a quiet car – and left it open lest the slam wake his younger brother. For some reason he could not identify, he didn't want Sam to be a part of whatever happened next. He crept down the path toward the bunker; damp leaves scrunched quietly under his feet. There was frost on the edges of some of them, and he noticed a rime-laced spider web arched and glistening between two trees. There was no birdcall. Perhaps it was still too early. Dean had a feeling he hadn't been asleep for very long.

The bunker door was closed, just as he had been sure to leave it, which was an encouraging sign. Perhaps everything was all right, despite the utter wrongness he felt in the very core of his being. He carefully unlatched the door and looked inside. Everything appeared undisturbed from the top of the stairs, but he could only see a small portion of the entryway from the elevated angle: a flaw that the Men of Letters had not foreseen. He slowly made his way down the metal steps, wincing at each slight clang his boots made on the stair treads. As the angle improved, he saw that many of the light bulbs had blown, and there were papers scattered across the floor. Otherwise, all was quiet. Dean fixed his gaze on his own bedroom door. It appeared slightly buckled, but otherwise intact. His sense of foreboding increased as he silently crossed the hall. Why hadn't Castiel come to let him know that he had completed the healing on Beth?

Feeling unaccountably filled with dread, Dean, turned the handle of the door and pushed it open. What he saw made his heart jump into his throat. Beth was sleeping peacefully on his bed, still in her leather jacket and jeans. She was curled on her side, and insinuated intimately around her, one arm pillowing her head, the other curled protectively over her chest, his hips pressed into her backside and his lips in her hair, was Castiel.


	4. Chapter 4

***Whoo, boy. There is some major smut on the way. Rated M, language and sexy times, all that jazz. Reviews welcome. Enjoy!

* * *

All thought fled Dean's brain; he was completely overtaken by sensation and feeling. His blood roared in his ears. He felt frozen to the spot as if he was under the power of a demon. A horribly familiar dark pit of self-loathing gaped beneath him. Of course Beth should be with Castiel. He was an angel; he was perfect. How could Dean, who had tortured souls in hell, who had betrayed his brother time and again, who used women and abused alcohol, ever compare?

Unwillingly, he pictured the two of them, passionately entwined, gasping and murmuring to one another. He could see Castiel's chapped lips rasping across her milky skin, his blunt nails digging into her flesh. He imagined Beth's careful ministrations on the inexperienced angel causing him to shudder and writhe under her hands, that frustratingly endearing look of signature angelic confusion on his face as he came apart. Fury rose in him like an infection, but it was mingled with an unexpected burst of lust. He realized with disgust and bewilderment that his body was responding with arousal to the thought of Cas and Beth in a sexual entanglement.

His heart in his throat, Dean opened his mouth to speak, or scream, or groan, but before any sound could come out, Castiel's eyes snapped open. The ice-blue gaze pierced into Dean's soul. Carefully, the angel extricated himself from around Beth's sleeping form, smiling faintly at Dean. He looked as though he was happy to see Dean. It was the smile that did it; as soon as Castiel was off the bed, Dean seized the collar of his trench coat savagely and dragged him out of the room.

Outside in the hall, Dean threw Cas against the wall, his arm pressed into the angel's throat. His other hand was holding Castiel's right arm away from his body, preventing him from reaching for his angel blade. He was so close he could feel Cas's muscles working under his skin. The angel's expression was hurt and puzzled. "Dean," he rasped out.

Dean was breathing so hard that his vision had narrowed. "What did you do to her?" he whispered violently, "Did you touch her?!"

He eased up on Cas's throat incrementally so that the angel could answer. "I healed her."

Dean stared hard at Castiel, trying to glean the truth from that cold blue stare. Castiel drew in his breath shakily and brought up his free hand. Dean flinched, expecting a blow, but was again shocked into immobility when Cas gently laid his hand on Dean's face. "I wouldn't do that, Dean," Cas's voice was so low, Dean could barely hear it, "Not to you." His skin tingled where Cas's hand lay, and he closed his eyes, leaning into the touch, wanting to believe that what the angel said was true.

As though his body had a mind of its own, Dean pressed himself into Cas harder, and was alarmed to feel his cock jump in his jeans. He opened his eyes, realizing his face was a breath away from Cas's. Something flashed in the angel's eyes, and the hand on Dean's face crept around the back of his head, drawing him inexorably closer. Suddenly, Dean recoiled, and shoved Cas viciously away. "Get out."

The command was delivered flatly. Castiel looked at Dean as though he had been slapped. Then he turned and strode out, toward the metal stairs. Dean listened to the clanking steps fade away.

Dean stood alone, heart pounding, trying to get his breathing under control. What had just happened? Why had his body reacted so strangely? Dean was under no illusions about his attractions. He'd found the occasional man appealing before. But he'd never acted on his attractions. And he'd certainly never considered himself sexually attracted to his angel.

Just then, he heard steps descending from above, and braced himself for Castiel's rage. He'd been on the receiving end of a beat down from Castiel before, and it wasn't pretty. Luckily, it was his brother who appeared around the corner. "Dean, what the hell? I just passed Cas on his way out the door, and he looked really upset. _Cas_ looked upset. What did you do?"

" _I_ didn't do anything, Sam. I found him in bed with Beth."

Dean watched the words sink in. For a college genius, Sam could be so freaking dense sometimes. "What?" Sam exclaimed, "Dean: Cas would never do that. Like, at all. Especially not with Beth."

Dean scoffed and turned away, but Sam seized his shoulder and forced him to turn. "Look, Dean, you haven't exactly been forthcoming with information about what's between you and Beth, but give me and Cas some goddamn credit. Anyone can see that you've been different, lighter, somehow, since she found you. Castiel could never, ever do something to sabotage that. Not to you."

He shrugged his brother's hand off his shoulder, incredulous. "I found them in _bed_ together Sammy – I don't want to talk about this. I have to check on Beth."

Sam threw up his hands and left. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Dean pushed on the wood of the door. The bed was empty. Beth must have heard the fight; that much Dean could be sure of. But how had she snuck past him? Where had she gone? Dean felt a moment of panic, terrified she had somehow gone after Cas, before he realized that the sound of running water percolated through the halls.

He strode off in the direction of the industrial-sized bathrooms, chest constricting with anxiety. He approached the door cautiously, unsure of what he would find there. He shouldered it open and was enveloped in a wall of steam. She must have been boiling herself alive in there. "Beth?" he called, his voice rough, and echoing along the tiles.

"In here." Her voice was curiously flat.

The steam was so thick: Dean could barely see anything. He edged into the bathroom, jumping when he caught himself reflected over and over again in the bank of mirrors. He stripped off his flannel shirt, sweat breaking out over his body. Creeping along beside the shower stalls, Dean paused at each one to pull back the curtain and check if Beth was inside. "Beth?" he said softly.

The answer came as he rounded the last stall, and saw her. "Here."

She was sitting on the floor of the stall, completely naked, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. She was holding her head up, though, looking steadily at him. And she was radiant. He had been so focused on Cas wrapped around her in his room that he hadn't even noticed how _healthy_ she looked. She practically glowed in the industrial lighting of the bathroom. The warm mist hung around her like the haze effect in an old movie. Her dark hair clung to her body in damp tendrils.

He fought valiantly against his arousal at the sight of her nudity; however, he failed miserably. Despite his awareness that Beth's emotional needs currently outweighed his physical ones, Dean was mortified to realize that he was becoming all riled up, once again at a completely inappropriate time. Disregarding the tremors of desire running through him, Dean switched off the scalding shower and then swiftly knelt. Water seeping through the knees of his jeans, he seized her shoulders. "Beth. Are you alright?" The question came out as a growl.

She smiled, then, a grin that lit her face like a slow sunrise. "I'm okay, Dean. I'm more than okay. Cas – did _something_ – to my brain. Jo's still here, and so is Clara. But they aren't jostling for a place anymore. It's quiet, and calm inside. Here," she said, and pulled his hand from her shoulder to feel along her hairline.

"See?" she said, "No more scars. He made me _perfect_."

She was right. Dean couldn't feel the scar from her head injury any more. But he wouldn't be dissuaded by the miracle. "Beth. Listen to me. Did he… Did he touch you? Or, or hurt you?"

Her eyes focused again on his face. A giggle burbled up and was released in a burst from her mouth. "Are you asking if _Castiel_ took advantage of me?"

The giggle died in her throat when Dean scowled at her. "Oh, Dean, no," she said softly. "I'm completely fine. He didn't do anything untoward. I don't think that would have even occurred to him. Besides, he would never, never do that to you."

"Yeah, everybody keeps saying that; but then why did I walk in on him spooning you like a lover?" Dean's voice wavered: "Then why did you kiss him?"

She scrunched up her nose at the comment, and Dean tried very hard not to let the action melt his resolve. "Yes, I suppose I can see how that would seem strange," Beth paused, clearly struggling to find the words to explain her behaviour. "I don't know if this will make sense to you, Dean, but I think I kissed him because I know what he means to you. Something like a 'thank you' kiss, for all he's done for you."

Beth moved to stand, pulling him up with her. Dean tried to look anywhere but her glistening body, but she seized his face between her hands, grey eyes searching his green ones. "You do believe me, don't you?" she asked earnestly. Here voice dropped to a whisper. "Why do you always believe that the people you care about want to hurt you, Dean?"

Dean's resolve collapsed. He wrapped his arms around her, heedless of the water soaking into his clothing. "I don't want you to leave me," he whispered fiercely. "You _can't_ leave me."

His shirt muffled Beth's voice, but Dean thought she said, "We won't, Dean. We won't leave you."

He pulled back and looked her over, allowing himself a wry smile at her absurd loveliness. Then he noticed and angry red mark on her chest, partially covered by her damp hair. "Beth, what's that?" He gasped as he brushed her hair aside. Burned into the left side of her chest over her heart, livid and new, was the angel's handprint, identical to Dean's own mark, long faded.

"Beth…" her name came out as a groan, as he gingerly brushed the mark with his fingers. The reaction was alarming. Beth's skin flushed and her body arched into his, her sharp moan cut off as she buried her face in his shirt. Her fingernails were biting into the back of his neck, and he held her tight, terrified he had hurt her. "What happened?" he growled. "Are you alright?"

She didn't respond, but he felt her hand slowly release its grip on his neck, then skim down his left shoulder. Beth's chest was heaving against his ribs, and he could feel the rapid beat of her heart vibrating through him. He gripped her harder, trying to calm her. Then her fingers slid up the sleeve of his t-shirt, and over the mark Castiel had left on him. It felt like tongues of electricity emanated from the mark and skated across his skin, leaving shivers of pleasure on their wake. She immediately withdrew her fingers, but Dean was already profoundly aroused. "Jesus," he said, though it came out more like a moan. "What the hell was that?"

Beth pulled away, staring at him, panting. "I don't know," she gasped, "But don't stop."

Her lips met his with searing heat as her fingers once again found the mark on his shoulder. He moaned into her mouth, his hands roaming over her damp skin. He didn't think he had ever been so hard – it was practically painful. She pulled up his shirt, now thoroughly damp, only taking her mouth off his for long enough to get the garment over his head. Now they were skin on skin, a delicious friction building between their bodies. He began to trail his kisses down her jaw and neck, until they landed on the red, raised flesh of the handprint on her chest. "Dean…" she moaned, and he delighted in the feeling like static against his lips.

Her fingers were fumbling with his belt, and he slid his hands down her body as he laved her mark with his tongue. Dean brushed his thumbs over her slit, and was rewarded with a high moan. She was practically _soaking_ between her legs, she was so aroused, and he growled into her skin, the anticipation of sheathing himself inside her almost too much to bear. She finally managed to get his zipper down, and she slid her hand inside his boxers, gripping his cock deliberately. The electricity spread throughout his body and centered on the point where she held him in her hand. He seized her hips and lifted her off the tiled floor, backing her into the wall. The breath left her lungs with the impact, but she just wrapped her legs around his hips and guided his swollen, weeping cock to her entrance. With one thrust, he buried himself within her. All thought of any kind of foreplay he might have usually employed was gone when Beth's lips landed on the mark Cas had burned into his skin. He grunted as he pulled out and drove into her again. His belt buckle jingled with every thrust, his jeans still slung around his hips. Small cries were leaking from Beth's lips at every movement, and she clung to him, barely able to hang on, his onslaught of her body was so ferocious. A few words penetrated his lust-soaked brain: "Oh… God! Deannn… Don't stop!"

Dean found her mark with his lips once again just as she savagely bit into the print on his skin. He drove his hips into hers, and her teeth ripped from his shoulder as she cried out loudly, her inner muscles contracting around him, pushing him over the edge until her spurted into her. They became utterly still, gasping in the damp air. Dean rested his forehead on her shoulder and she stroked his sweat-dampened hair as her body shook with the final tremors of orgasm.

* * *

After, they sat on opposite sides of the shower stall, careful not to touch, Dean holding his balled up t-shirt to the bleeding bite mark on his shoulder, Beth wrapped in a fluffy towel. Neither had spoken for almost ten minutes. Dean's mind was a swirl of conflict. He had just experienced the best sex of his life, yet he felt guilty for fucking Beth so soon after she had had a traumatic experience, the nature of which he was still unsure about. He was puzzled about why he would have such a bizarre physical reaction to Beth's touch on his angelic brand, especially when she had touched it when they had been together before, and he had felt nothing out of the ordinary. He was still intensely jealous of the easy intimacy he had witnessed between Beth and Cas, but now it was mixed with remorse for his angry accusations.

"I'm sorry, Beth," he said. "I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't ask how you were doing, if you were okay after going to the Roadhouse… All I cared about was whether or not you slept with Cas. And I didn't even wear a fucking condom… _Jesus._ "

She dismissed his comments with a wave. "It's called an IUD. I'm not going to get pregnant. And despite all your 'traffic' on the road, I know you're pretty careful about protection. I'm sure you're clean. And I'm fine. Cas helped… I'll talk about the Roadhouse when I'm ready to talk about it."

Dean nodded curtly and lapsed into silence again. He didn't feel any better.

A deep sigh escaped Beth. "How do you do it, Dean?" she asked.

"Do what?" he inquired, nonplussed.

"How do you deal with this constant _longing_ for Castiel?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Dean spluttered.

She scoffed. "Of course you do, Dean. He made his imprint on your soul, just like he did on mine." She pointed to his shoulder. "The evidence is burnt into your skin."

Dean stood. "I don't know what you're talking about!" he spat.

Beth scrambled to her feet, and blocked him from leaving the stall. "Stop, Dean. Just stop and listen."

She regarded him levelly. He could see the confidence in her eyes. Beth knew he wouldn't risk hurting her just to push her aside. He sighed. "I don't want to hear it."

"Well, you're going to. Why is obvious to everyone but you? Cas loves you, Dean," her voice dropped, "And I think you feel the same way about him."

Dean had no response. Beth ploughed ahead: "You're certainly attracted to him. I've seen the way you look at him. Like he's a piece of meat. Like you want to devour him. I know because it's how you look at me. But this brand, this imprint that he left, it responds to him. I feel him. I want to be near him. And I know you feel that way, too."

His throat felt constricted. Did he really feel that way? Who did he always turn to? Cas. He had said it himself. He _needed_ Cas. But he had Beth now, why would he need Cas? Why would he want him? Jesus, was he so fucking selfish that he had to have his cake and eat it, too? He was broken from his reverie by Beth's hand, laid gently over his heart. Her voice was low as she said, "You know, you're allowed to be happy, Dean. More than that: you _deserve_ to be happy."

He shook his head. She didn't resist when he pushed past her.


End file.
